The Power of the First-Person Narrative

“Storytellers are a threat. They threaten all champions of control, they frighten usurpers of the right-to-freedom of the human spirit—in state, in church or mosque, in party congress, in the university or wherever." —Chinua Achebe

Excerpt from "Tales of Healing"

Digital storytelling has become an umbrella term for any kind of storytelling that involves audio and visual communication blended into multimedia output; from vlogging (video blogs) to audio slideshows, from journalism classes that teach the skills for video production and editing to workshops based on the format created by the Center for Digital Storytelling. At the THP workshops, we guide participants in the latter, with the express intent of helping folks heal from traumatic events they have experienced, partnering with organizations who also work to assist individuals in becoming engaged and independent members of their community. This amalgamation of intent and educational production processes has created a unique environment, unlike any other in Lane County, Oregon.

For this project, I have been forced to limit my analysis to the narrowest of parameters of the experience. There has been no mention of the stories themselves, the individuals engaging in the process, or their personal lives and personalities. This has been a direct result of institutional obstacles that tend to infantilize the populations featured in this project under the guise of protection. According to the protocol of my IRB, this study could analyze the post-workshop responses, as long as I did not mention the stories, the people, or anything about their experiences. Not that what is featured here is not important—it is very valuable—but I consider it a significant gap in this study that the reactions and post-workshop experiences cannot be presented in conjunction with the power of the stories themselves. This is a next stage in the analysis of the digital storytelling workshop experience. Additionally, creating connections between DST and autobiographical documentary will be strengthened by the addition of the multimedia stories themselves, although the outline for this possible future analysis can be found herein.

Many future paths are available from where this study ends. As stated above, a study that is prearranged to interview DST participants immediately after a workshop and then re-interview them 3 or 6 months later would lend great insight into staying power (or the lack thereof) of the transformational aspects of the experience. Data of this sort would lend itself to studies that look at democracy movements, public engagement, and the intersection of the two. A study which looks more deeply at the negative aspects of the experience might reveal important changes that need to be made, although based on this data, a study focused on that might take years to gather enough data to successfully produce information that could be used. A study that focuses on issues of access to technology and workshops would be beneficial to in this particular study. Who can afford to attend workshops? Why is it particularly difficult to secure funding for this type of process? And why does there seem to exist a resistance to employing this practice in therapeutic processes? These are some questions that might serve as the basis for research.

An analysis of the stories themselves is a natural path to follow, as is a comparative analysis of the stories and post-workshop responses. To more firmly plant DST in the genre of documentary, one would need to analyze the stories created themselves, which would, I believe situate digital storytelling as a sub-genre in the field of participatory media. As a sub-genre of documentary, digital storytelling—especially those stories created by trauma survivors—could align itself with Truth and Reconciliation committees and processes.

Two areas of study that could be taken up by scholars in psychology-related fields would be looking more closely at the therapeutic ramifications of the digital storytelling workshop experience. More specifically, trauma studies would benefit from the insights gained by the multimedia process, as well as the workshop experience itself. Those working in counseling and social work fields, both of which consider a more holistic view of mental health than say the field of psychiatry, could be well-served by studies that looked at DST as an art-based therapy; this process could easily be incorporated into treatment and counseling programs. At this point, however, at least in my experience, most treatment and counseling organizations are so incredibly strapped for cash that their hands are tied as far as incorporating new processes into existing programs. This would require additional support by staff already weighted down by heavy workloads. In any event, emerging scholars might want to consider bridging the old with the new, by creating counseling programs that use an art-therapy foundation and employ multimedia technologies. Education Studies are on the vanguard in their use of digital storytelling and borrowing certain methods from Media Studies or Folklore would serve their, heretofore, heavy reliance on quantitative methodology. The first-person narrative would strengthen their studies, allowing for a more nuanced understanding of the projects they engage in. As an aside, federal funding is heavily weighted toward Education studies and quantitative methods. Finding ways to incorporate qualitative and oral history methods into these studies might open doors of insight for future students and scholars.

In the fields of folklore and media studies, my particular fields of interest, revisiting the discussion of digital storytelling and its connection to documentary film at the start of this study, and with the caveat that no actual stories are mentioned, I nonetheless can reassert that these productions qualify as a new sub-genre of documentary. I think it important to revisit the fact that no stories have been presented in this study—something that seems a natural and necessary element of a study focused on digital storytelling. This is particularly true as the data support such powerful personal transformation. What have these individuals transformed from? What were their experiences? As I’ve stated before, the institutional barriers for my inclusion of these stories have been acute. Oral history collection is a tricky process as far as Human Subjects Approval is concerned. Neither ethnography nor strict analysis, it often defies IRB categorization, making it a shade of gray that heavily-quantitative processes just can’t “see.” Moreover, when working with youth and adults who have been subjugated by the system, it not only sends up additional red flags for those responsible for giving—or withholding—research approval, but it seems to trigger an almost knee-jerk response in them. They are teens, they’re in the system, and we will further our marginalization of them by a second (or third?) silencing under a pretext of protection. It is truly maddening. Is it any wonder students and scholars turn to journalistic pursuits in order to share important stories? One could say this is a method of maintaining the hierarchical status quo employing bureaucratic means or is it another way to keep the voices of these marginalized populations silenced? To be fair, I understand the history of the review board’s existence. It was founded on a noble and important premise: scholars and researchers were exploiting underrepresented populations for their own gain and at the personal expense of the individuals being poked and prodded, both medically and psychologically. But, if I may be so bold, I strongly suggest that these review boards be required to include scholars who actually engage in oral history collection and ethnography. Review boards are overwhelmingly comprised of quantitative researchers who know almost nothing of what the process is or its methodological frame. Therefore, they insist on squeezing a fluid and moving process into categorical boxes that cannot hold it.

The format of a digital story is what makes a conversation about documentary possible in the first place. I would like to restate the definition of documentary, as is generally accepted as “the standard,” by Renov and Nichols: documentary aims to either 1) record, reveal, or preserve; 2) persuade or promote; 3) analyze or interrogate; or 4) to express (Renov); and following three of Nichols’ models: the historical model, the testimonial model, and the autobiographical model, it is clear to me that this analysis supports digital storytelling’s inclusion in the genre and succeeds in creating a framework from which to launch, in any event. An increase in academy-community collaborations, using participatory methods, should uncover a rich layer of local history and give voice to those who have been under the radar for far too long. These stories are Lane County’s history and relate the accounts of real people who have lived often-extraordinary experiences. They are spoken in their own voices and visually communicated in a way that makes sense for them, at an intersection of oral history and text-based literacies.

Digital storytelling is the epitome of Ong’s secondary orality. Within the workshop experience, it allows for both subjective and objective ways of communication, it transcends barriers of time and place, but is also very much grounded in “everyday” concerns. Most importantly, perhaps, it is a way of building community and sharing history. It is very much worth our effort and time to listen to them for they surely give us great insight into daily life in the United States. That they are not created for mainstream media outlets as they now exist, does not mean they lack value, as is often the subtext in university courses. Just the contrary, they allow us a glimpse into current social and economic policies, starting and ending with the self. It is in this place we might cultivate a more empathetic ear and open our minds to the possibility of social justice.

Returning to academia at an age when most people are beginning to see the glimmer of retirement has had its challenges. None has been greater than the wall with which I have collided—at times repeatedly—attempting to create dialogue with mentors and colleagues who have rarely struggled, or perhaps have done so minimally, or have simply rarely questioned their privilege or the status quo. Generally good people who simply don’t think about folks much outside their small circle of friends. Or when they do, it is highly theorized and based on abstract notions of “class,” or “the margins.” I suppose this is true for people in most spheres, but in my experience, those who have never had to worry about putting food on the table tend to not, well, think about it too deeply. This is not to say that privileged individuals never consider the poor, as many are great allies, but outside those few scholars who work in a praxis-based manner, it has come to be a great frustration at the utter lack of genuine, daily interest in the people many scholars write about. Moreover, those walls where I have for years stood ringing the doorbell, knocking loudly, and—yes banging my head—are the walls that separate different disciplines. A percentage of members in each discipline are engaged in university/community-based work but they rarely speak to one another. Each discipline has its own activist scholarship but rather than building bridges with one another in solidarity, because they are doing the same work using a different vocabulary or slightly different lens, we each carry on alone. This project has taught me that if we genuinely care about social justice and the people with whom we work and write about, it will take a fusion of interdisciplinarity and community outreach to accomplish any lasting change. I have also learned in this study that human beings are unbelievably resilient. Individuals have a desire to heal from trauma and with a little guidance and attention from the people around them, this is a possibility for most.

The Trauma Healing Project, where I have conducted this research, is one organization that works tirelessly at building these bridges. It has strong connections with the University of Oregon (particularly the counseling psychology department) but struggles to secure funding. The workshops that I have been a part of are dependent upon grants, which are sporadic and unreliable. THP nonetheless perseveres with a mission that recognizes daily loss of children, teens, and adults in our community. The need is great and immediate and the Trauma Healing Project attempts to support real people who need help now. Not in a month, not when the next legislative session meets, but today, yesterday more often than not. DST is one way they are able to do this, but rather than workshops being offered twice a month, or even once a month, they are able to host them, if they are fortunate, once a quarter. To be clear, these workshops are offered to low-income (sometimes homeless) residents of Lane County. THP receives no compensation from the participants, but the organizations with which they are affiliated usually help with food during the workshops. As stated earlier, at one workshop the youth were offered the incentive of a $50 gift card to Target and this was supplied by the agency, not THP. People come to workshops to volunteer, for no pay, nonetheless. This says a lot about the workshop process as well as the commitment to healing and social justice these volunteers possess. THP also struggles against the systemic and institutional ideologies of those in charge or employed by state agencies. More than once, the egos of therapists, caregivers, and family members worked in direct opposition to the storytellers and the digital storytelling process. Frankly, I found this to be one of the more surprising aspects of the workshop experience. At the Phoenix Program, we had to address attacks from two therapists who were outraged that “their” teens had told stories they had never heard during treatment. To be fair, in one case the young woman was soon heading home and her story revealed years of brutal abuse at the hands of her father. This, needless to say, threw her treatment schedule and therapist into a tailspin. What I found most shocking, however, was not the tailspin, but rather the anger at the digital storytelling process. I sensed a deep and abiding insecurity in that particular therapist who was terribly threatened by a perceived loss of control. She actively worked against our future involvement at the Phoenix Program. This situation brings up a real concern for those who wish to incorporate alternative or art-based therapies into treatment programs: it is imperative that more pre-workshop processing be done with those who work on a daily basis with folks in treatment. Moreover, taking into consideration the newer psychological literature that challenges the notion that talking about and revisualizing traumatic events might, in fact, impede healing, those who work in a therapeutic context need to be aware of possible effects for their clients—both positive and negative.

At THP, we incorporated this insight into future workshops. This became necessary when working with adults with disabilities, as well, as we dealt with one caregiver who had absolute control over “her” adult, even down to speaking for him (due to a birth defect that made it extremely difficult for him to speak his thoughts even though his mind worked perfectly, needless to say, using a computer was fairly easy for him). After one evening’s work, this particular caregiver raged at two of us, accusing us of trying to tell a story that wasn’t his. This was eventually dealt with by conversations between everyone at THP and the agency she was employed by so this particular storyteller could finish his story. And the realization, at the end of the day, was that this caregiver was, in actual fact, controlling his story, which sent her into her own tailspin. Again, THP incorporated this awareness into future workshops. Although the data included here does not directly support this assumption, I would venture to say that the digital storytelling workshop process—and most forms of expression involving creative interpretation of past events—triggers unexpected feelings and insights that can be hard to incorporate into the status quo. This simple fact can be both clarifying and devastating on many levels. When this happens with, for example, trauma survivors those who work with them on a daily basis need to be prepared for the possibility.

In some ways, this was the most challenging aspect of the study for me. My involvement is one based on a belief that personal efficacy can lead to empowerment and social engagement. Employing DST as an advocate for personal growth and social justice, digital storytelling as a therapeutic tool is confronted by ingrained policies and codes of conduct that I see working more to support a glossed-over blandness—the appearance of healing—than true recovery. The law mandates that we report ongoing abuse. How do we, as practitioners of liberation, comfortably say “you are allowed to tell any story you want in any way you’d like,” when it has to be followed by “...unless you tell us that your father abuses you, then we have to tell the authorities.” This, in effect, silences them and so the story gets buried a little deeper. Sweeping changes in the mental health, corrections, and educational systems are needed. This study cannot address the steps it will take to repair a broken system, but it can supply a small amount of validation of digital storytelling’s worth.

This project has been a labor of love. I am thankful for the opportunity and privilege of working with community members who, despite the many challenges written about here, are positive and optimistic. The storytellers, who must remain anonymous, have overcome the most difficult of obstacles and are, at the end of the day, grateful for having been heard. Moreover, the commitment to equity, healing, and inclusion found in the assistants humbles me. Many of these volunteers are trauma survivors themselves and seem to have a calling to help others avoid a life suffering from suppressed pain. As was stated in one of the assistant’s responses: “...knowing that you are each a survivor and you have learned that you are a survivor through these videos at this phase in your life, while you’re still young, and you didn't have to wait until like me…I got to be 60-something to learn that I was a survivor, so I really appreciate, you know, being a part of that.” Finding ways to support organizations such as the Trauma Healing Project is an on-going effort and its express purpose, “to encourage a community’s capacity for deep listening” is in alignment with other organizations around the country working to similar ends. For the individuals fortunate enough to participate in a digital storytelling workshop, the rewards seem to be profound. Many times I was told, “I want to come again and make another story,” or “Now I can show others how to make them.” This is what this process was created for. With no agenda other than facilitating the expression of voices lost in the shuffle of a neoliberal America, this desire to place value on the subjective experience is the very truest motive I have for completing this project.

The digital storytelling workshop experience and its confrontation with institutionalized power is a subtle affair. It challenges these structures through subjectivity and gentleness rather than banner-waving and cerebral smack-downs. DST allows for mistakes and the reimagining of personal experience through easy technology learned in a supportive and open environment. This ability to reclaim and rework is perhaps its most dangerous weapon. For if we are able to change that which has been forced upon us in our individual lives through a creative reimagining, might this not ripple into our world at large? Digital Storytelling, by my estimation, is part of a wave of change whereby we the people are, to use bell hooks’ phrase, “talking back” from the margins and that simple, yet powerful act, levels the playing field. Potentially. In the brightest moments I have seen individuals transformed by the process of creatively reimagining a terrible event in their life, releasing themselves from the shackles that bound them to it like a weight holding them beneath the waves. The workshop environment removes the risk of continued isolation brought about by the original experience and of a person-to-screen-only interaction because it is first, and foremost, an intimate, face-to-face collaboration. Learning to create a digital story teaches individuals how to use technology for expression and self-empowerment, thus connecting them to contemporary modes of communication as well as to a global movement for democracy and reclamation. Awareness of this proximity is carried into daily life and, one would hope, into interpersonal interactions as well. This step, from personal to relational efficacy is a natural trajectory in future studies of digital storytelling. I would like to reiterate that I come to this project with the express desire to help guide others through oppression and self-empowerment. I am not a therapist and have absolutely no desire to work with people in that capacity, although in my experience “therapy” is sometimes merely allowing someone to creatively express a story. Voices used against injustice as one avenue to rewrite forgotten and suppressed histories is where I stand in this study. Like the testimonio that brings to light injustice and the need for political action, so are the stories of the folks I have worked with. Although not part of this study, my hope is that the people I have guided to tell their stories might take their empowerment one step further and reach out to their community and plug it into political action, challenging the forces of oppression that had previously kept them weighted down. ​I came into this project with certain biases. They involved a belief that the voice matters and that telling stories is an essential human endeavor. In fact, it defines us as a social species. I do not believe we have collectively lost this skill to share tales, but we have placed more value on some voices, rejecting others that do not conform to a now-ailing patriarchy. The hierarchy that defines this paradigm has been well-documented in a thousand tomes and I will not rail here. There are many who can do so much more deftly than I. What I contribute to this discussion is a more micro-view of its effects on individual people who are the victims of its most brutal and destructive tendencies. Neglect, chronic poverty, violence, domination, greed, and a whole myriad list of other abuses whose cure is increasingly harder to get as social services are slashed by those in power. Children who, when born, enter generations-long situations that bury them before they have a chance to catch their breath. And yet. The glimmer of indomitable spirit that is also a human trait can nearly always be seen and shines out from them when given a space to express what they have seen. My involvement in digital storytelling keeps the inner fire lit and after each workshop—no matter how exhausted or whatever weighs me down in my own life—I leave with the knowledge that those four or six or nine individuals have had their inner fire kindled as well. To quote the Center for Digital Storytelling: “Change the story. Change the world.” It is in our acknowledgment that each person has the ability to change their story and by giving them the chance to do just that where we become more human. Change the story. Change our world.